Marcus Tullius Cicero. How to Grow Old A Puke (TM) Audiobook

INTRODUCTION.
Forty-five BC was a bad year for Marcus Tullius Cicero.
The famous Roman orator and statesman was in his early sixties and alone. He had divorced his wife of thirty years not long before and married a younger woman, only to divorce her almost immediately. His beloved daughter Tullia had died at the beginning of the year, plunging Cicero into despair. And his place at the forefront of Roman politics had been lost just four years earlier when Julius Caesar crossed the Rubicon River and forced the Roman Republic into civil war. Cicero could not support Caesar and so, after initially standing against the new dictator and subsequently receiving a humiliating pardon, he had retired to his country estate. There he remained, far from Rome, an old man in his own mind useless to the world.
But rather than sinking into his wine cups or committing suicide as his friend the younger Cato had done, Cicero turned to writing. He had been an avid student of Greek philosophy in his youth and longed to make his mark in the literary world by explaining to his Roman countrymen the ideas he had discovered in Plato, Aristotle, and other great thinkers. He was naturally inclined to the Stoic doctrines of virtue, order, and divine providence, as opposed to what he saw as the limited and self-indulgent views of the Epicureans. And so he began to write. In an astonishingly short period of time, working from early morning until late into the night, he produced numerous treatises on government, ethics, education, religion, friendship, and moral duty.
Just before Caesar’s murder on the Ides of March in forty four BC, Cicero turned to the subject of old age in a short treatise titled De Senectute. In the ancient world as in the modern, human life could be short, but we err when we suppose that the lifespan in Greece and Rome was necessarily brief. Although longevity in antiquity is notoriously difficult to measure, and infant and childhood mortality was certainly high, if men and women reached adulthood, they stood a decent chance of living into their sixties, seventies, or beyond.
Greek authors before Cicero had written about the last phase of life in different ways. Some idealized the elderly as enlightened bearers of wisdom, such as Homer’s King Nestor, while others caricatured them as tiresome and constant complainers. The poet Sappho from the sixth century BC is perhaps the most striking of all ancient writers on the subject as she mourns the loss of her own youth in a recently discovered fragmentary poem:
My skin once soft is wrinkled now,
My hair once black has turned to white.
My heart has become heavy, my knees,
That once danced nimbly like fawns cannot carry me.
How often I lament these things, but what can be done?
No one who is human can escape old age.
Cicero, however, wanted to move beyond mere resignation to offer a broader picture of old age. While acknowledging its limitations, he sought to demonstrate that the later years could be embraced as an opportunity for growth and completeness at the end of a life well lived. He chose as spokesman in his fictional dialogue the elder Cato, a Roman leader from the previous century whom he greatly admired. In his brief conversation with two younger friends, Cato shows how old age can be the best phase of life for those who apply themselves to living wisely. He refutes the objections of many critics that old age need be a wretched time of inactivity, illness, loss of sensual pleasure, and paralyzing fear about the closeness of death. Though Cicero pokes fun at seniors such as himself by having Cato digress into rambling asides (such as his extended discourse on farming), he nevertheless affirms old age as a time of life not to be dreaded but to be enjoyed to the fullest.
There are many valuable lessons to be learned from Cicero’s little book on aging. Some of the most important are:
A good old age begins in youth. Cicero says the qualities that make the later years of our lives productive and happy should be cultivated from the beginning. Moderation, wisdom, clear thinking, enjoying all that life has to offer, these are habits we should learn while we are young since they will sustain us as we grow older. Miserable young people do not become happier as they grow older.
Old age can be a wonderful part of life. The senior years can be very enjoyable if we have developed the proper internal resources. Yes, there are plenty of unhappy old people, but they shouldn’t blame age for their problems. Their faults, Cicero says, are the result of poor character, not the number of years they have lived.
There are proper seasons to life. Nature has fashioned human life so that we enjoy certain things when we are young and others when we are older. Attempting to cling to youth after the appropriate time is useless. If you fight nature, you will lose.
Older people have much to teach the young. There is genuine wisdom in life that can be gained only by experience. It is our pleasure and duty as we grow older to pass this on to those younger than us who are willing to listen. But young people also can offer much to their elders, including the pleasure of their lively company.
Old age need not deny us an active life, but we need to accept limitations. No eighty-year-old is going to win a foot race against healthy young people in their twenties, but we can still be physically active within the modest constraints imposed on us by our bodies. And there is so much older people can do that doesn’t require great physical strength, from studying and writing to offering wisdom and experience to our communities.
The mind is a muscle that must be exercised. Cicero has the main character of his book learn Greek literature in his later years and carefully recall the events of the day before going to sleep each night. Whatever technique works, it is vital to use our minds as much as possible as we grow older.
Older people must stand up for themselves. Or as Cicero says, “Old age is respected only if it defends itself, maintains its rights, submits to no one, and rules over its domain until its last breath.” The later years of life are no time for passivity.
Sex is highly overrated. Not that older people can’t enjoy the pleasures of the flesh, but the relentless sexual passions of youth fade as we grow older, and thank goodness they do, according to Cicero. The reduction of sensual appetites gives us room to enjoy other aspects of life that are much more satisfying and lasting.
Cultivate your own garden. Cicero presents this idea in his chapter praising the delights of farming, but there is an important lesson here. Finding a worthwhile activity in our later years that gives us true enjoyment is essential for happiness. Spreading manure or pruning grapevines may not be your passion, but whatever yours is, pursue it with joy.
Death is not to be feared. Cicero says that death marks either the end of human consciousness or the beginning of eternal bliss. Whether or not this is true, it certainly holds, as Cicero says, that life is like a play. A good actor knows when to leave the stage. To cling desperately to one’s life when it has been lived well and is drawing to a close is both futile and foolish.
Readers from the Middle Ages to modern times have been delighted and inspired by Cicero’s little book on aging. The French essayist Montaigne declared that it gave him an appetite for growing older, while the American Founding Father John Adams took pleasure in re-reading the dialogue many times in his later years. Benjamin Franklin was so impressed by the book that he printed a translation of it in Philadelphia, making it one of the earliest classical works published in America. Today’s world, obsessed with the pursuit of youth, needs Cicero’s wisdom more than ever.

HOW TO GROW OLD.
Dedication to my friend Atticus.
Oh Titus, if I can give you any help,
if I can lighten the cares fixed in your breast,
that now roast you and turn you on a spit,
what will be my reward?
And so, Atticus, may I address you in the same lines which,
that man of little wealth but rich in loyalty,
speaks to Flamininus, although I’m sure that you’re not like Flamininus.
who is tossed about by worry, Titus, day and night.
I know that you are a man of moderation and even temper, who brought home from Athens more than just a name! You brought back a cultured and prudent mind as well. Yet I suspect that you are troubled by the same political events of our day that are causing me such anxiety. But looking for comfort from such things is too difficult to do now and is a topic we’ll have to put off until another time.
Instead, I would like to write something for you now about the subject of growing old. This burden is common to both of us, or at least it’s quickly and unavoidably approaching, and I want to lighten the burden for you and me alike. I know that you of course are facing the prospect of aging calmly and wisely, and that you will continue to do so in the future, just as you approach everything in life. But still, when I was thinking about writing on the subject, you kept coming to mind. I would like this little book to be a worthy gift that we can enjoy together. In fact, I’ve so much enjoyed composing this work that writing it has wiped away all thoughts of the disadvantages of growing older and made it instead seem a pleasant and enjoyable prospect.
We truly can’t praise the love and pursuit of wisdom enough, since it allows a person to enjoy every stage of life free from worry.
I’ve written a great deal on other matters and will again in the future, but, as I said, this book that I’m sending you now is about growing old. When Aristo of Ceos wrote about the subject, he made Tithonus his spokesman, but I think it’s wrong to give a mythological character such authority. Instead, I have put my words into the mouth of the aged Marcus Cato so that they might be taken more seriously. I imagine Laelius and Scipio with him at his house, admiring how he is handling his age so well. If he seems to reply in a way that is more learned than he appears in his own writings, attribute it to the Greek literature he studied carefully in his later years.
But why should I say more? From here on, the words of Cato himself will unfold to you my thoughts on growing older.
THE CONVERSATION WITH CATO.
Scipio: When Gaius Laelius and I are talking, Marcus Cato, we often admire your outstanding and perfect wisdom in general, but more particularly that growing old never seems to be a burden to you. This is quite different from the complaints of most older men, who claim that aging is a heavier load to bear than Mount Etna.
Cato: I think, my young friends, that you are admiring me for something that isn’t so difficult. Those who lack within themselves the means for living a blessed and happy life will find any age painful. But for those who seek good things within themselves, nothing imposed on them by nature will seem troublesome. Growing older is a prime example of this. Everyone hopes to reach old age, but when it comes, most of us complain about it. People can be so foolish and inconsistent.
They say that old age crept up on them much faster than they expected. But, first of all, who is to blame for such poor judgment? Does old age steal upon youth any faster than youth does on childhood? Would growing old really be less of a burden to them if they were approaching eight hundred rather than eighty? If old people are foolish, nothing can console them for time slipping away, no matter how long they live.
So if you compliment me on being wise, and I wish I were worthy of that estimate and my name, in this way alone do I deserve it: I follow nature as the best guide and obey her like a god. Since she has carefully planned the other parts of the drama of life, it’s unlikely that she would be a bad playwright and neglect the final act. And this last act must take place, as surely as the fruits of trees and the earth must someday wither and fall. But a wise person knows this and accepts it with grace. Fighting against nature is as pointless as the battles of the giants against the gods.
Laelius: True, Cato, but we have a special request to make of you, and I think I speak for Scipio as well. We both hope to live long enough to become old someday, so we would be very grateful if you could teach us even now how we can most reasonably bear the weight of the approaching years.
Cato: It would be my pleasure, Laelius, if you would really like me to.
Laelius: We would indeed, if it’s not too much trouble. You’ve already traveled far on the road we will follow, so we would like to learn about the journey from you.
Cato: I’ll do my best. I have often heard the complaints of people my age, “like gathers with like,” says the old proverb, especially Gaius Salinator and Spurius Albinus, my near-contemporaries and former consuls, who were constantly moaning about how age had snatched away the sensual pleasures of life, pleasures without which, at least to them, life was not worth living. Then they complained that they were being neglected by those who had once paid them attention. But in my view, their blame was misplaced. If aging were the real problem, then the same ills would have befallen me and every other old person. But I have known many people who have grown old without complaint, who don’t miss the binding chains of sensual passion, and who aren’t neglected by their friends. Again, the blame for all these sorts of complaints is a matter of character, not of age. Older people who are reasonable, good-tempered, and gracious will bear aging well. Those who are mean-spirited and irritable will be unhappy at every period of their lives.
Laelius: That is undoubtedly true, Cato. But what if someone were to say that your wealth, property, and social standing, advantages in life that few people possess, are what have made growing older so pleasant for you?
Cato: There is some truth in that, Laelius, but it isn’t the whole story. Remember the tale of Themistocles and the man from Seriphos. The two were having an argument one day during which the Seriphian said that Themistocles was famous only because of the glory of his city, not his own achievements. “By Hercules, that’s true,” said Themistocles. “I would never have been famous if I was from Seriphos, nor you if you were from Athens.” The same can be said of old age. It isn’t a light burden if a person, even a wise man, is poor. But if someone is a fool, all the money in the world won’t make aging easier.
My dear Scipio and Laelius, old age has its own appropriate defenses, namely, the study and practice of wise and decent living. If you cultivate these in every period of your life, then when you grow old they will yield a rich harvest. Not only will they produce wondrous fruit even at the very end of life, a key point in our discussion, but you will be satisfied to know that you have lived your life well and have many happy memories of these good deeds.
When I was young, I was fond of Quintus Maximus, who recaptured Tarentum, as if we were the same age, although he was an old man and I just a lad. He was a man of dignity seasoned with friendliness, and age had not changed him. When I first began to get to know him, he was not yet of great old age but certainly growing advanced in years. He had first become a consul the year after I was born. In his fourth term as consul, I was a young soldier marching with him to Capua, then five years later to Tarentum. Four years after that, when Tuditanus and Cethegus were consuls, I became a quaestor. At that same time Quintus Maximus was giving speeches in favor of the Cincian Law on gifts and rewards, though he was quite elderly by then.
Even though he was old, he waged war like a young man, and wore down Hannibal’s youthful exuberance by his persistence. My friend Ennius spoke splendidly about him:
One man, by delaying, saved our country.
He refused to put his reputation above the safety of Rome,
so that now his glory grows ever brighter.
Such vigilance and skill he displayed in recapturing Tarentum! I myself heard Salinator, the Roman commander who had lost the town and fled to the citadel, boast to him, “Quintus Fabius, you owe the retaking of Tarentum to me.” The general laughed and said in reply, “That’s certainly true, since I wouldn’t have had to recapture it if you hadn’t lost it in the first place.”
Nor was Fabius more distinguished as a soldier than as a statesman. When he was consul the second time, the tribune Gaius Flaminius was trying to parcel out Picene and Gallic land against the express will of the Senate. Even though his colleague Spurius Carvilius kept silent, Fabius made every effort to oppose Flaminius. And when he was an augur, he dared to say that the auspices favored whatever was for the good of the state and that what was bad for the state was against the auspices.
I can assure you from personal observation that there were many admirable qualities in that man, but nothing was more striking than how he bore the death of his son, a distinguished former consul. His funeral oration is available for us to read, and when we do, what philosopher is not put to shame? But Fabius wasn’t just commendable in public while under the gaze of his fellow citizens. He was even more admirable in the privacy of his own home. His conversation, his moral advice, his knowledge of history, his expertise in the laws of augury, all were astonishing! He was very well read for a Roman, and knew everything not only about our own wars but also about foreign conflicts. I was eager to listen to him at the time, as if I foresaw, as indeed happened, that when he was gone I would have no one else to learn from.
Why have I said so much about Fabius Maximus? So that you might see how wrong it would be to describe an old age like his as unhappy. Of course, not everyone is able to be a Scipio or a Fabius and talk about the cities they have conquered, the battles they have fought on land or sea, the wars they have waged, and the triumphs they have won. But there is another kind of old age, the peaceful and serene end of a life spent quietly, blamelessly, and with grace. Plato lived this way in his last years, still writing when he died at eighty-one. Isocrates is another example, who tells us himself he was ninety-four when he composed his Panathenaicus, and he lived another five years after that! His teacher Gorgias of Leontini reached his one hundred and seventh birthday, never resting from his studies and work. When someone asked him why he wished to live so long, he replied, “I have no reason to complain about old age.” A noble answer, worthy of a scholar.
Foolish people blame old age for their own faults and shortcomings. Ennius, whom I mentioned just a little while ago, certainly didn’t do this, for he compares himself as an old man to a gallant and victorious racehorse:
Like a courageous steed that has often won Olympic races in the last lap, now weakened by age he takes his rest.
You probably remember Ennius quite clearly, for he died only nineteen years before the election of our present consuls, Titus Flamininus and Manius Acilius, back when Caepio and Philippus were consuls (the latter for the second time). I was sixty-five when he died and I made a speech in favor of the Voconian Law with a loud voice and mighty lungs. Ennius was seventy at the time and suffered what men suppose are the two greatest burdens of life, poverty and old age. But he bore them so well you might think he enjoyed them.
When I think about old age, I can find four reasons why people consider it so miserable:
First, because it takes us away from an active life.
Second, because it weakens the body.
Third, because it deprives us of almost all sensual pleasures.
Fourth, because it is not far from death.
If you don’t mind, let’s look at each of these reasons one by one to see if they are true.
The Active Life.
Let’s consider first the claim that old age denies us an active life. What kind of activities are we talking about? Don’t we mean the sort we engage in when young and strong? But surely there are activities suitable for older minds even when the body is weakened. Wasn’t there important work for Quintus Maximus, whom I mentioned earlier, and for Lucius Paullus, your own father, Scipio, and also the father-in-law of that best of men, my son? And what about other old men, such as Fabricius, Curius, and Coruncanius? Were they doing nothing when they were using their wisdom and influence to protect their country?
Appius Claudius was not only old but also blind when he spoke before the Senate, which was favoring a peace treaty with King Pyrrhus. Yet he did not hesitate to utter the words Ennius later put into verse:
What madness has turned your minds, once firm and strong, from their course?
And so on, in the most impressive style. But you know the poem, and indeed the actual speech of Appius survives. He delivered it seventeen years after his second consulship, though there were ten years between his consulships and he had been censor before first being consul, so you can see that he was a very old man by the time of the war with Pyrrhus. Yet this is the story recorded by our ancestors.
People who say there are no useful activities for old age don’t know what they’re talking about. They are like those who say a pilot does nothing useful for sailing a ship because others climb the masts, run along the gangways, and work the pumps while he sits quietly in the stern holding the rudder. He may not be doing what the younger crewmen are doing, but what he does is much more important and valuable. It’s not by strength or speed or swiftness of body that great deeds are done, but by wisdom, character, and sober judgment. These qualities are not lacking in old age but in fact grow richer as time passes.
In my life I have served as a soldier in the ranks, then a junior officer, then a general, and finally, when consul, as a commander-in-chief. Since I am no longer fighting in wars, perhaps you think I am doing nothing. But the Senate listens to me when I speak about which wars to fight and how to fight them. Even now, I am looking into the future and planning war on Carthage. I will never stop fearing that city until I know it has been totally destroyed.
And I pray that the immortal gods will reserve for you, Scipio, the honor of completing the work your grandfather left unfinished. It has been thirty-three years since that greatest of men died, but each passing year will increase the memory of his fame. He died the year before I became censor, nine years after my consulship, during which time he himself was elected consul a second time.
If your grandfather had lived to be a hundred, would he have regretted his old age? Certainly not. He wouldn’t have spent such time running or jumping or throwing his spear or practicing with his sword, but instead he would have used his wisdom, reason, and judgment. If old men didn’t possess these qualities, our ancestors never would have given the name “Senate” to our highest council.
Among the Spartans as well, those who hold the most important offices are called “elders,” which is exactly what they are. If you read or listen to the histories of foreign lands, you will learn that the greatest states were overturned by the young but saved and restored by the old. As Naevius says in his play The Game:
Tell me, how did you lose your great nation so quickly?
And the most significant answer the characters give is this:
Because new speakers came forth, foolish young men.
Rashness is truly the fruit of youth, but wisdom of old age.
Some people will say that memory fades away as the years pass. Of course it does if you don’t exercise it or aren’t very bright to begin with. Themistocles learned by heart the names of all the citizens of Athens. So when he grew old, do you think he confused Aristides with Lysimachus when he greeted them? I myself remember not only those who are living now but their fathers and grandfathers too. As I read their epitaphs, I am not afraid of losing my memory, as the superstition says, but rather find my recollections of the dead refreshed. And I have certainly never heard of an old man who forgot where he hid his money! Old people remember what interests them, whether it be the dates to appear in court, who owes them money, or to whom they owe money.
And what about elderly lawyers, priests, augurs, and philosophers? What a multitude of things they remember! Old people maintain a sound mind as long as they remain eager to learn and apply themselves. This is true not only of public figures but of those leading quiet, private lives. Sophocles composed tragedies long into his old age. When he seemed to be neglecting his family’s finances because of his passion for writing, his sons took him to court so that the jurymen could remove him from authority on account of his weakness of mind (like us, they had laws empowering such actions when the head of the family was mismanaging business affairs). They say that the old man then read to the court his Oedipus at Colonus, which he had just written and was even then revising, asking when he finished if it sounded like the work of a weak-minded person. After his recitation, the jury acquitted him.
Clearly Sophocles was not deterred in his calling by old age, nor were Homer, Hesiod, Simonides, or Stesichorus, nor the two men I mentioned earlier, Isocrates and Gorgias, not to mention outstanding philosophers such as Pythagoras, Democritus, Plato, Xenocrates, or their successors Zeno, Cleanthes, or Diogenes the Stoic, whom you have both seen at Rome. Didn’t they all actively pursue their work as long as they lived?
But setting aside these extraordinary men and their work, I can name for you elderly Roman farmers from the Sabine countryside, my own neighbors and friends, who are almost never out of their fields during major farming operations such as sowing, reaping, and storing crops. Although their work is less notable than some other types of labor, for truly no one is so old that he doesn’t think he’ll live another year, these men know they are working at tasks they will not live to see finished. As Caecilius Statius says in his Young Comrades:
He plants trees for the use of another age.
If you ask a farmer, however old he might be, whom he is planting for, he will always reply: “For the immortal gods, who have not only handed down to me these things from my ancestors but also determined that I should pass them on to my descendants.”
When he wrote about that old man making provisions for future generations, Caecilius said something even more striking:
Indeed, Old Age, if you brought no evil,
but this alone, it would be enough, that a person,
by living long sees many things he does not wish to see.
But perhaps the same old man sees much he likes! In any case, even young people see much in life they wish they hadn’t.
Another sentiment expressed by Caecilius is even worse:
I think the most unhappy thing about old age
is feeling that you are wearisome to the young.
Not at all, I say! The old can be a pleasure rather than a burden. Just as wise old men enjoy the company of young men of good character and find their old age made lighter by honor and affection received from the young, so young men rejoice in the instruction given by old men, by which they are led to virtue. My young friends, I like to think you enjoy my company as much as I do yours.
So you see how old age, far from being feeble and sluggish, can be very active, always doing and engaged in something, as it follows the pursuits of earlier years. And you should never stop learning, just as Solon in his poetry boasts that while growing old he learned something new every day. I’ve done the same, teaching myself Greek as an old man. I have seized on this study like someone trying to satisfy a long thirst. (And this, by the way, is how I’ve been able to use all the examples I’ve brought into this discussion.) I have heard that Socrates learned as an old man to play the lyre, that favorite instrument of the ancients. I wish I could do that as well, but at least I’ve applied myself diligently to literature.
The Body and the Mind.
I no longer wish for the strength of youth, that was the second objection to growing older we listed, any more than when I was a young man I desired the strength of a bull or an elephant. People should use the strength they have appropriately whatever their age. What story could be more pitiful than that of Milo of Croton? One day when as an old man he was watching the young athletes training on the racecourse, he reportedly looked down at his own muscles and wept, saying: “And these now are dead.” But not as dead as you, foolish man! For your fame never came from yourself, only from the strength of your sides and arms.
Sextus Aelius, Tiberius Coruncanius of earlier times, and, more recently, Publius Crassus were very different from this. These men instructed their fellow citizens in the law and remained expert jurists until their last breath.
I do fear that a public speaker loses some of his effectiveness as he grows older, since his skill depends not only on his intellect but also on his lungs and strength. But advancing years do have a way of making the voice brighter, more melodious. I haven’t yet lost this quality and you can see how old I am. The appropriate speaking style of later years is peaceful and restrained, and often the calm and elegant voice of an older person lends itself to being more readily heard. And even if someone is no longer able to speak well, he can still instruct a Scipio or a Laelius!
What indeed could be more pleasant than an old age surrounded by the enthusiasm of youth? For surely we must agree that old people at least have the strength to teach the young and prepare them for the many duties of life. What responsibility could be more honorable than this? Truly, it seemed to me, Scipio, that Gnaeus and Publius Scipio, as well as your two grandfathers, Lucius Aemilius and Publius Africanus, were most fortunate to be accompanied always by crowds of noble young people.
And no one who provides a liberal education to others can be considered unhappy even if his body is failing with age. The excesses of youth are more often to blame for the loss of bodily strength than old age. A wanton and wasteful youth yields to old age a worn-out body.
The elderly Cyrus, according to Xenophon, declared as an old man on his deathbed that he had never felt less vigorous in his later years than as a young man. And also I remember as a boy seeing Lucius Metellus, who, four years after his second consulship, became chief priest and held that post for twenty-two years. To the end of his days he was so vigorous that in spite of extreme old age he never felt the loss of youth. I don’t need to mention myself in this respect, though old men like me are allowed to indulge themselves.
Don’t you see in Homer how often Nestor declares his own admirable qualities? He had seen three generations of men at that point in his life, but he didn’t fear seeming overly talkative or conceited when he spoke the truth about himself. For as Homer says: “Speech sweeter than honey flowed from his tongue.” Now this sweetness in no way depended on his physical strength, and yet the Greek leader Agamemnon never prays for ten men like Ajax, but for ten like Nestor. He doesn’t doubt that if he had them, Troy would quickly fall.
But to return to myself. I am eighty-four years old now, and I wish I could make the same boast as Cyrus. But this much I can say: I no longer have the energy I did when I served as a young soldier in the Punic War, or as quaestor in the same war, or as a consul and general in Spain, or four years later, serving as a military tribune in the campaign at Thermopylae under the consul Manius Glabrio. But nonetheless, as you can plainly see, old age has not unnerved or shattered me. Neither the Senate nor the popular assembly nor my friends nor my followers nor my guests find my strength lacking. I give no credit to that ancient and much-praised proverb that advises us to become old early if we want to be old long. Personally, I would rather be old for a shorter time than to be old too soon. Therefore, I have never refused an appointment with anyone who wanted to meet with me.
It’s true that I don’t have the strength of either of you, but then again neither of you has the strength of the centurion Titus Pontius. Does that mean that he is a better person than you? Let each use properly whatever strengths he has and strive to use them well. If he does this, he will never find himself lacking. They say that Milo walked the length of the Olympic stadium carrying an ox on his shoulders. But what would you prefer to be given, the physical strength of Milo or the mental power of Pythagoras? In short, enjoy the blessing of bodily strength while you have it, but don’t mourn when it passes away, any more than a young man should lament the end of boyhood or a mature man the passing of youth. The course of life cannot change. Nature has but a single path and you travel it only once. Each stage of life has its own appropriate qualities, weakness in childhood, boldness in youth, seriousness in middle age, and maturity in old age. These are fruits that must be harvested in due season.
I expect, Scipio, that you sometimes hear news about your grandfather’s friend and host Masinissa, who is now ninety years old. Once he begins a journey by foot, he never mounts a horse. Likewise, when he sets out on horseback he never dismounts. He goes bareheaded even in the rain and cold. He is in such good condition that he still carries out all his royal duties and functions in person. This shows how a man who practices exercise and self-control can preserve some of his original vigor even when he grows old.
But let us assume that old age makes us feeble, what does it matter? No one expects older people to be physically strong in any case. That is why both law and custom exempt men my age from public duties requiring bodily strength. We aren’t expected to perform tasks we cannot do nor even those things we can do.
Of course, many older people truly are in poor health, so that they are unable to carry out normal duties or indeed any tasks that life demands. However, this inability is not a factor of old age but a characteristic of poor health in general. Remember, Scipio, the weakness of your adoptive father, the son of Publius Africanus. He had poor health, or rather no health at all. Had it not been so, he would have been the second glory of our country, for in addition to his father’s courage he possessed more abundant learning. Therefore, since even the young cannot escape infirmity, why should we marvel that old people sometimes lack physical strength?
We must fight, my dear Laelius and Scipio, against old age. We must compensate for its drawbacks by constant care and attend to its defects as if it were a disease.
We can do this by following a plan of healthy living, exercising in moderation, and eating and drinking just enough to restore our bodies without overburdening them. And as much as we should care for our bodies, we should pay even more attention to our minds and spirits. For they, like lamps of oil, will grow dim with time if not replenished. And even though physical exercise may tire the body, mental activity makes the mind sharper. When the playwright Caecilius speaks of “old fools of the comic stage,” he means men who are gullible, forgetful, and lazy, qualities that belong not to old age in general but only to those who have allowed themselves to become drowsy, sluggish, and inert. Wantonness and lust are more common in the young than in the old, yet they are not found in all youth, just those of poor character. So too the senile silliness we call “dotage” is characteristic not of all old people but only those who are weak in spirit and will.
Appius Claudius was old and blind, yet he led a household of four vigorous sons, five daughters, numerous servants, and many dependents. He did not lazily succumb to old age but kept his mind taut as a bow. He didn’t direct his household as much as he ruled over it. His slaves feared him, his children venerated him, and all held him dear. The traditions and discipline of his forefathers flourished in his home.
For old age is respected only if it defends itself, maintains its rights, submits to no one, and rules over its domain until its last breath. Just as I approve of a young man with a touch of age about him, I applaud an old man who maintains some flavor of his youth. Such a person may grow old in body but never in spirit.
I am now working on the seventh book of my Origins and collecting all the records of our earliest history, as well as editing the speeches I delivered in famous cases. I am investigating augural, priestly, and civil law. I also devote much of my time to the study of Greek literature. And to exercise my memory, I follow the practice of the Pythagoreans and each evening go over everything I have said, heard, or done during the day. These are my mental gymnastics, the racecourses of my mind. And although I sweat and toil with them, I don’t greatly miss my former bodily strength. I also provide legal advice to my friends and frequently attend meetings of the Senate, where I propose topics for discussion and argue my opinion after pondering the issues long and hard.
All this I do not with the strength of my body but with the force of my mind. Even if the effort of doing these things were more than I could manage, I could still lie on my reading couch and think about the activities that were now beyond me. But the fact that I can do them I owe to my vigorous life. For a man who has been engaged in studies and activities his whole life does not notice old age creeping up on him. Instead, he gradually and effortlessly slips into his final years, not overcome suddenly but extinguished over a long period.
The Pleasures of Age.
We come now to the third objection to growing older, that the pleasures of the flesh fade away. But if this is true, I say it is indeed a glorious gift that age frees us from youth’s most destructive failing.
Now listen, my most noble young friends, to the ancient words of that excellent and most distinguished man, Archytas of Tarentum, repeated to me when I was serving as a young soldier in that very city with Quintus Maximus: He said the most fatal curse given to men by nature is sexual desire. From it spring passions of uncontrollable and reckless lust seeking gratification.
From it come secret plotting with enemies, betrayals of one’s country, and the overthrow of governments. Indeed, there is no evil act, no unscrupulous deed that a man driven by lust will not perform. Uncontrolled sensuality will drive men to rape, adultery, and every other sexual outrage. And since nature, or perhaps some god, has given men no finer gift than human intelligence, this divine endowment has no greater foe than naked sensuality.
Where lust rules, there is no place for self-control. And in the kingdom of self-indulgence, there is no room for decent behavior.
“Imagine,” Archytas continued, to make his meaning clearer, “a person enjoying the most exquisite sensual pleasure possible. No one would doubt that a man in that state is incapable of using his mind in any rational or reasonable way. Therefore, nothing is more detestable or pernicious than sensual pleasure. If a person indulges in it too much and too long, it plunges the soul into utter darkness.”
Nearchus, a steadfast friend of Rome who was my host at Tarentum, told me that according to tradition Archytas spoke these words to Gaius Pontius the Samnite, father of the man who defeated the consuls Spurius Postumius and Titus Veturius at the Caudine Forks. Nearchus added that Plato the Athenian was present and heard him utter these words. And indeed I have investigated this and found that Plato did come to Tarentum when Lucius Camillus and Appius Claudius were consuls.
So why have I quoted Archytas? To make you see that if reason and wisdom aren’t enough to make us reject lustful desires, then we should be grateful that old age takes away the craving to do what is wrong. For such feelings cloud our judgment, are at war with reason, and, if I may say so, blind the eyes of the mind and allow no room for living a good life.
It was an unpleasant duty I performed when I had to eject from the Senate a man who had been consul seven years earlier, Lucius Flamininus, the brother of that most worthy Titus Flamininus. But I believed his shameful lust had demanded this action. For when he was a consul in Gaul, he executed, at the request of a prostitute during a banquet, some man imprisoned for a capital offense. During the time when his brother, my immediate predecessor, had been censor, Lucius had escaped punishment. But Flaccus and I could not permit such flagrant and indecent passion to go unanswered, especially since his scandalous crime against a private individual had dishonored Rome.
I often heard from elders, who said they heard it from old men when they were boys, that Gaius Fabricius used to marvel at a story told to him (while he was on a mission to King Pyrrhus) by Cineas of Thessaly. Cineas said that there was an Athenian professing to be wise who claimed that everything we do should be judged by how much pleasure it gives us. Now, when Manius Curius and Tiberius Coruncanius heard this from Fabricius, they said they hoped that the Samnites and Pyrrhus himself would adopt his teaching, since it’s easier to conquer people who surrender to pleasure. Manius Curius had been a good friend of Publius Decius, who, while consul for the fourth time (and five years before Curius himself was consul), had sacrificed his life for his country. Fabricius and Coruncanius knew him as well. They were firmly convinced, as shown by the lives they led and especially by Decius’s final act, that certain goals in life are naturally fine and noble and should be sought for their own sake. They believed that every decent person should pursue these goals and reject self-indulgence as contemptible.
Why am I talking so much about pleasure? Because the fact that old age feels little desire for sensual delights is not only no cause for reproach but indeed a reason to praise it highly. Old age has no extravagant banquets, no tables piled high, no wine cups filled again and again, but it also has no drunkenness, no indigestion, and no sleepless nights!
However, if we must make some concession to pleasure, since its allurement is hard to resist, “the bait of evil” Plato brilliantly calls it, men caught in its net like fish, then I admit we should allow old age, though it lacks excessive feasts, the delights of more moderate dinners. When I was a child I often saw old Gaius Duilius, son of Marcus, who first defeated the Carthaginians in a naval battle, walking home from dinner parties. He always loved being escorted on these little journeys by torchbearers and a flute player. No private citizen had behaved in such a way previously, but his glorious reputation gave him license.
But why do I speak of others? Let me return now to myself. To begin with, I have always had my club companions. It was during my quaestorship that clubs in honor of the Great Mother and her Idaean worship were introduced at Rome. I used to regularly dine with these companions in a modest fashion, yet with a certain fervor of youth most appropriate then, though it diminishes as time goes by. But it wasn’t the gastronomic delights that appealed to me even then as much as the pleasure of meeting and conversing with my friends. The word our ancestors used for a meal with friends was convivium, a “living together”, because it describes the essence of a social gathering. It’s a much richer description of the experience than the Greek terms “drinking together” or “eating together,” which emphasize what is least important in these gatherings rather than what is most valuable.
Personally, because I love conversation, I even enjoy dinner parties that start early in the day. At these gatherings, I talk not only with my contemporaries, very few of whom remain, but also with you and your young friends. I am so grateful to old age for increasing my delight in conversation while lessening my desire for food and drink. But if any of my older friends enjoy these things, and let no one think that I have declared war on pleasure since a certain amount of it has perhaps been justified by nature, then let me say that I know no reason old age should be lacking in such gratification.
I very much appreciate our ancestral custom of appointing a banquet leader for social gatherings and starting the conversation at the head of the table when the wine comes in. I also like cups as described in Xenophon’s Symposium, small and filled as if with dew, cool in the summer and warmed in winter by sunshine or fire. Even when I’m among the rustic Sabines I frequent such gatherings. And when at home with my neighbors, I join them every day for a meal where we talk as long into the night as we can about all sorts of things.
But of course some people will point out that the old aren’t as able as the young to have their senses tickled. That’s true, but they don’t yearn for it either, and nothing troubles you if you don’t desire it. Sophocles, when he was already an old man, gave a great answer to someone who asked if he still enjoyed sex. “Good gods, no!” he said. “I have gladly escaped that cruel and savage master.”
For those who yearn for such things, not to have them is perhaps troublesome and annoying. But if you’ve had your fill of sex and have satisfied all such desires, then to lack them is better than to possess them. If you don’t long for something, you don’t miss it. That’s why I say the absence of desire is quite pleasant.
But granting that young people enjoy the pleasures of the flesh more than the old, I need to make two points. First, as I’ve said, these kinds of pleasures matter little. Second, even though old age doesn’t provide these delights in abundance, it doesn’t lack them completely. Just as Ambivius Turpio entertained the audience at the front of the theater more than those in the rear seats, still he gave those in back a good show as well. In the same way, young people may enjoy sex more than the old, but the elderly still can appreciate it sufficiently by looking on such pleasures from a distance.
How wonderful it is for the soul when, after so many struggles with lust, ambition, strife, quarreling, and other passions, these battles are at last ended and it can return, as they say, to live within itself. There is no greater satisfaction to be had in life than a leisurely old age devoted to knowledge and learning. I used to see, Scipio, your father’s friend Gaius Gallus measuring, you might say, the whole of the heavens and the earth. How often the morning sun surprised him as he worked on some chart he had begun the previous night. And how often night overtook him at a task he had begun at dawn. How he delighted in telling us about eclipses of the sun and moon before they happened!
And let’s not forget others who engaged in easier but no less demanding work. How Naevius delighted in his Punic War, as did Plautus in The Savage and The Cheat. I myself saw Livius Andronicus when he was an old man. He brought out a play six years before I was born, when Cento and Tuditanus were consuls, yet he continued to live until I was a young man. I don’t need to mention again the example of Publius Licinius Crassus, who was active in religious and civic law, or bring up Publius Scipio, who was elected chief priest just a few days ago. Yet I have seen all these men still enthusiastic in their callings after they grew old. There was also Marcus Cethegus, whom Ennius rightly described as “the marrow of persuasion.” I myself saw him speak with exuberance even though he was an old man.
How can anyone compare the pleasures of banquets or games or brothels to what these men enjoyed? They had a passion for learning, a passion that in sensible and educated people advances as the years go by. So there is truth in Solon’s verse I quoted in which he said that as he grew older he learned more and more every day. Surely there can be no greater pleasure than the pleasure of the mind.
The Joys of Farming.
Now, speaking of pleasures, let me tell you about farming, which brings me a great deal of personal joy. The pleasures of growing things are not at all diminished by age and they seem to me most suitable for the life of a wise person. The joys of farming are like a bank account with the earth itself, which never refuses to honor a withdrawal and always returns the principal with interest, though sometimes only a little yet at other times a great deal.
What delights me are not only the fruits of the land but the power and nature of the earth itself. It receives the scattered seed in its softened and ready womb, and for a time the seed remains hidden, occaecatum in Latin, hence our word occatio. Then warmed by the moist heat of its embrace, the seed expands and brings forth a green and flourishing blade. With the support of its fibrous roots, it grows and matures until at last it stands erect on its jointed stalk. Now within its sheath it has reached its adolescent stage so that finally it bursts forth and an ear of grain comes into the light with ordered rows and a palisade of spikes as protection against nibbling by small birds.
I really shouldn’t mention the vine, its beginnings, cultivation, and growth. But I must tell you that tending vines is the rejuvenation and delight of my old age. I simply can’t get enough of it. I won’t dwell here on the inherent force of all things that are generated from the earth, how from a tiny fig seed or grape stone or from the smallest seeds of any fruit or plant mighty trunks and branches grow. Just consider the planting of shoots, the twigs, the cuttings, the sprouts, isn’t it enough to fill anyone with admiration? Vines naturally want to droop on the earth, but prop them up and they will raise their tendrils like hands to the sky. They twist and turn in every course until the farmer’s pruning knife checks them lest they turn to wood and spread too abundantly.
With the coming of spring, the branches left on a vine at every joint put forth a bud, which in turn become swelling grapes. These are bitter at first, but soon the moisture of the earth and heat of the sun turn them sweet as they ripen, wrapped by leaves to provide moderate warmth and keep away the burning rays of the sun. What indeed could be more alluring to the taste or pleasing to the eye?
Now, it isn’t simply the usefulness of the vine that delights me, as I said before, but its cultivation and very nature. Just consider the rows of stakes, the vine tops joined to trellises, the tying up of the branches, the extending of the vines, and the pruning of some branches, as I said, while others are left to grow freely.
Why should I now mention irrigation, ditching, and the hoeing of the ground that makes the land more productive? Why should I discuss here the usefulness of manure? You can read all about this in my book on agriculture.
Even the learned Hesiod says nothing of this matter, although he wrote on agriculture. But Homer, who I believe lived many generations earlier, does mention Odysseus’s father Laertes soothed his sorrow over his absent son by tilling his land and manuring it too.
The farmer also enjoys his fields, meadows, vineyards, and woodlands, his gardens and orchards, cattle pastures, swarming bees, and all manner of flowers. Planting too is a delight, and grafting as well, a most ingenious operation of agriculture.
I could go on and on about the charms of farming, though I have said too much already. But do forgive me if I continue, for my enthusiasm for the rustic life carries me away. And besides, old age is naturally talkative, I don’t want to excuse it of all its faults.
They say that Manius Curius spent the remainder of his life in farming after he had triumphed over the Samnites, Sabines, and Pyrrhus. And as I gaze at his country house, not far from my own, I cannot admire enough the frugality of the man or the disciplined spirit of his times.
Once, while he was sitting by his fireside, some Samnites brought him a large gift of gold. But he rejected this, saying that it seemed to him less glorious to possess gold than to rule over those who have it. A man with such a great soul must have found much happiness in old age.
But lest I wander away from my subject, let me return to farmers. In former days, senators (that is, senes, “elders”) were farmers, if indeed the story is true that Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus was at his plough when they called him to be dictator. By the order of Cincinnatus, Gaius Servilius Ahala, his master of the horse, seized Spurius Maelius and put him to death for attempting to make himself king. It was from their distant farmhouses that Curius and other elders were summoned to the Senate. That is why the messengers sent to bring them were called viatores, “travelers.”
Surely men like these who delighted in working the land could not have been unhappy when they grew old? I personally believe that no life can be happier than that of a farmer, not only because of the service provided that benefits the entire human race, but because of the pleasures I mentioned earlier and the abundance of all things needed for worship of the gods and the sustenance of humanity.
Seeing that some people are very concerned with material goods, I hope this talk of abundance will return me to their good graces. For the farmer who looks ahead and works hard always has his storage rooms and cellars full of wine, oil, and provisions. His whole farm is filled with an air of plenty with rooms of abundant pork, goat meat, lamb, poultry, milk, cheese, and honey. Then there is the farmer’s own garden, which he calls his “second leg of pork.” What spare time he has is sweetened with activities such as bird-catching and hunting.
Why should I speak at length about the greenness of meadows, the ordered rows of trees, the glory of vineyards and olive groves? Instead, I will be brief. Nothing can be more abundantly useful or beautiful than a well-kept farm. Not only does old age not impede the enjoyment of such a farm, but it actually invites and increases its enjoyment. For where else in the world can an old man better find warmth from the sunshine or the hearth? Or where else in the summertime can he more healthfully cool himself with shade or running water?
Let others have their weapons, their horses, their spears and fencing foils, their balls, their swimming contests and foot races. Just leave old men like me our dice and knucklebones. Or take away those too if you want. Old age can be happy without them.
The writings of Xenophon are very informative on many subjects and I recommend you read them carefully, as I know you already do. How greatly he praises agriculture in his book on estate management. To show you that Xenophon regarded agriculture as the most regal of pursuits, let me tell you a story from his book which he has Socrates relate in a conversation with Critobolus.
Cyrus the Younger, a Persian prince known for his outstanding intelligence and the glory of his rule, was visited at Sardis by Lysander of Sparta, a man of the greatest virtue. He had come to Sardis with gifts from their allies. Among the courtesies Cyrus extended to his guest was a tour of a carefully planted park. Lysander complimented the prince on the stately trees growing in patterns of five, the clean and well-tilled soil, and the sweet fragrance of the flowers. The Spartan then added that what impressed him was not only all the hard work that had gone into the park but the ingenuity with which everything had been arranged. “It was I who planned it all,” said Cyrus. “The rows are mine, the arrangement is mine, and I planted many of the trees with my own hands.” After gazing at Cyrus’s purple robes, the shining beauty of his body, and his Persian clothes decorated with gold and many precious stones, Lysander declared: “People are right to call you happy, Cyrus. Not only are you fortunate, but you are a virtuous man as well.”
The good fortune of growing things is something every old person can enjoy. The cultivation of the soil is something we can pursue even to the end of our days. For example, we hear the story that Valerius Corvinus continued to work on his farm at an advanced age and so lived until he was a hundred years old. His first and sixth consulships were forty-six years apart, in other words, the length of time our ancestors considered to be the span of a man’s adult life until the start of old age. And the final part of his life was happier than what had come before since his influence was greater and he had fewer responsibilities.
The Honors of Old Age.
The crowning glory of old age is respect. Great respect was given to Lucius Caecilius Metellus, as well as Aulus Atilius Caiatinus. His epitaph reads:
All the nations say this man
was the noblest of his country.
But you know the whole epitaph since it is inscribed on his tomb. The universal acknowledgment of his fine qualities is testimony to his influence. We have seen in recent times the chief priest Publius Crassus and his successor Marcus Lepidus. What men they were! And what should I say of Paullus and Africanus and Maximus, of whom I spoke earlier? These men exuded authority not only in their speech but in the mere nod of their head. Surely the respect given to old age crowned with public honors is more satisfying than all the sensual pleasures of youth.
But please bear in mind that throughout this whole discussion I am praising an old age that has its foundation well laid in youth. Thus it follows, as I once said with the approval of all who heard me, that an old age which must defend itself with words alone is unenviable. Wrinkles and gray hair cannot suddenly demand respect. Only when the earlier years of life have been well spent does old age at last gather the fruits of admiration.
When that has finally happened, the signs of respect may at first seem unimportant or even trivial, morning visits, requests for meetings, people making way for you and rising when you approach, being escorted to and from the Forum, being asked for advice. We Romans scrupulously practice these civilities, as do all other decent nations.
It is reported that Lysander of Sparta, of whom I was just speaking, used to say that his city was the best place for the elderly, since his hometown treated old people with greater respect and deference than anywhere else. A story goes that once in Athens an old man went to a crowded theater to see a play, but not one of his countrymen offered him a seat. However, when he came to the section reserved for visiting Spartan delegates, each of them rose and invited him to sit down.
This action was heartily applauded by the whole crowd, which prompted one of the Spartans to say: “These Athenians know what good behavior is, but they don’t practice it.”
There are many admirable customs among our own board of augurs, but one particularly relevant to our discussion is the tradition that gives the members precedence in speaking according to age. This takes priority above official rank and even above those who are serving as the highest magistrates. What sensual pleasures could be compared to the rewards such influence bestows? It seems to me that those who make good use of such rewards are like actors who have played well to the end their role in the drama of life, and not like incompetent players who fall apart in the last act.
But some will say old people are morose, anxious, ill-tempered, and hard to please. And when we look closely, some of them are miserly as well. But these are faults of character, not of age. Besides, moroseness and the other faults I have mentioned have an arguable excuse in the aged, though perhaps not a very good one. After all, old people imagine themselves ignored, despised, and mocked. And granted, a fragile body is easily hurt. But all these troubles of age can be eased by a decent and enlightened character. We can see this in real life as well as on stage in Terence’s Adelphi brothers. One of them is most disagreeable while the other is quite pleasant. The truth is that a person’s character, like wine, does not necessarily grow sour with age. Austerity in old age is proper enough, but like everything else it should be in moderation. Sourness of disposition is never a virtue. As for miserliness in the old, what purpose it could serve I don’t understand.
What could be more ridiculous than for a traveler to add to his baggage at the end of a journey?
Death Is Not to Be Feared.
We must finally consider the fourth objection to growing old, an objection that seems especially calculated to cause worry and distress to a man of my years. I speak of the nearness of death. When a person is old, there is certainly no doubt that death cannot be far away.
Wretched indeed is the man who in the course of a long life has not learned that death is nothing to be feared. For death either completely destroys the human soul, in which case it is negligible, or takes the soul to a place where it can live forever, which makes it desirable. There is no third possibility.
Why should I be afraid then, since after death I will be either not unhappy or happy?
Besides, who even among the young would be foolish enough to believe with absolute confidence that he will be alive when evening comes? Young people are much more likely than the old to suffer death by accident. They also fall sick more easily, suffer more intently, and are harder to cure. That is why so few young people arrive at old age. If so many didn’t die young, we would have a wiser and more prudent population. For reason and good judgment are found in the old. If there had never been any old people, states would never have existed.
But I return now to the closeness of death. Why do you say it is a reproach to old age when you see it is also common among the young?
I have felt this keenly myself with the loss of my dear son, as have you, Scipio, with the death of your two brothers, young men destined for greatness. But you may argue that young people can hope to live a long time, whereas old people cannot. Such hope is not wise, for what is more foolish than to mistake something certain for what is uncertain, or something false for what is true? You might also say that an old man has nothing at all to hope for. But he in fact possesses something better than a young person. For what youth longs for, old age has attained. A young person hopes to have a long life, but an old man has already had one.
But, good gods, what in our human world ever lasts a long time? Let us assume the longest life possible, so that we may hope to reach the age of that king of Tartessus I have read about, a certain Arganthonius of Gades who reigned for eighty years and lived to the age of one hundred and twenty. But to me nothing that has an end seems long. For when that end comes, all that came before is gone. All that remains then are the good and worthy deeds you have done in your life. Hours and days, months and years flow by, but the past returns no more and the future we cannot know. We should be content with whatever time we are given to live.
An actor does not need to remain on stage throughout a play. It is enough that he appears in the appropriate acts. Likewise, a wise man need not stay on the stage of this world until the audience applauds at the end. The time allotted to our lives may be short, but it is long enough to live honestly and decently. If by chance we enjoy a longer life, we have no reason to be more sorrowful than a farmer when a pleasant springtime turns to summer and autumn. Spring is like youth with the promise of fruits to come. Our later years are the seasons of harvesting and storing away.
The particular fruit of old age, as I have said, is the memory of the abundant blessings of what has come before.
Everything that is in accord with nature should be considered good. And what could be more proper in the natural course of life than for the old to die? When young people die, nature rebels and fights against this fate. A young person dying reminds me of a fire extinguished by a deluge. But when an old person dies, it is like a flame that diminishes gradually and flickers away of its own accord with no force applied after its fuel has been used up. In the same way, green apples are hard to pick from a tree, but when ripe and ready they fall